


In Which Dan Has A Bad Day

by sinead



Category: Sports Night
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinead/pseuds/sinead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Bath products. Bickering. Basically pretty frivolous.  Mostly, this story is about my fondness for Dan's belly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Dan Has A Bad Day

 

It all started with the soap.

Or lack thereof. The scarcity of soap, Dan amended. He had woken up late and alone, having slept through his alarm. He had stumbled into the shower with half closed eyes, and hit the hot water. Once he was good and wet, he had groped in the recessed soap dish in the tiled wall, and come up with...nothing. That had opened his eyes, and now he stared at his empty hand, and then stared at the merest soapy residue in the ceramic slot, and felt betrayal course through him. He had paid fifteen dollars--fifteen!--for that bar of soap, and it had evaporated like fog on the Hudson River when he wasn't looking. When he was sleepy and rushed, and his guard was down. He thought bitterly of the pretty salesgirl in Bloomingdale's who had talked him into buying it in the first place. ("It makes your skin really soft. See?" she had said, as she stuck out her shapely arm for him to stroke. One born every minute, thought Dan.) The last few mornings, while his expensive soap had evidently been melting like the goddamned Wicked Witch of the West, he had showered at his gym. Dan closed his eyes against the shower's spray and tried to count how many mornings it had been. Since he'd spent that night at Casey's. At any rate, now he was stranded, without a bar of Dial or Lifebuoy to his name. He scanned the shelf that held his other bath accoutrements--sponge, razor, shampoo. In a pinch, he could wash with shampoo. Except for the fact, he realized, that he'd left it at the gym.

"Oh, fuck," Dan said, and grabbed the solitary bottle on the shelf. It was pink, and had some sort of floral design on it, and he vaguely remembered it having been there since his mother's last weekend visit, but at least it would work up a lather. Not wanting to think too closely about using his mother's toiletries--at least, not before he'd had coffee--he grabbed his bath sponge and set to work.

At first it seemed okay. Kind of sweet, vaguely floral, but not too bad. However, the scent got stronger and stronger as he lathered, until he was swimming in gardenias and frangipani. Before he realized what was happening, he used it on his hair, too, and no amount of determined rinsing would wash the smell down the drain. Finally, aware that he was going to be late for the noon rundown, he turned off the water and dried himself hastily.

It'll probably wear off pretty quickly, Dan thought. I hope. The bathroom smelled like the semi-tropical greenhouse at the Bronx Botanical Gardens. It was almost stupefying, and he shook himself, realizing he'd spent precious moments standing, staring unseeing at his reflection in the foggy mirror.

Dan drove into work, still feeling too self-consciously fragrant to risk the subway, and without the cushion of spare time necessary to find a cab. Sometimes he and Casey went in together, but they hadn't done that--well, since last week, anyway. Traffic wasn't too bad, and he was congratulating himself that he was going to be on time after all as he pulled up to the entrance to the building's underground parking. The heavy mesh gates were poised at the midway mark, and there were several men standing and staring at them in apparent bewilderment. A Mercedes was sitting on the other side of the half-closed gates, its horn sounding impatiently.

"Hey," Dan shouted to the tow-headed, weedy guard who usually sat in the kiosk by the gate. He was one of the gapers. Billy, Dan thought. His name's Billy--possibly. Or not. Possibly-Billy turned slowly towards Dan. "What's with the gate?"

"Stuck," Could-Be-Billy said succinctly, and swiveled to stare at the gate once more, as if it could only be raised by the power of his unbroken gaze.

"Stuck? How stuck? Stuck for how long?" Dan called in exasperation. Almost-Sure-He's-Billy didn't answer. Dan put his car in neutral and got out.

As he approached the group of men, Might-Not-Be-Billy finally registered his questions, and slowly turned again, with evident reluctance. "Charlie's gone to find the spare key," he said mysteriously. "But Mr. Ledingham called in sick today, and don't nobody else know where it is." This intelligence was confirmed by inarticulate grunts from the other men gathered around. These men were carrying tools, but Charlie's quest for the key apparently had them in limbo, unable to begin repairs. They all stood quietly--Dan, too--contemplating the gate. The Mercedes had fallen silent; its well-dressed occupant had gotten out and was also lost in contemplation on the other side. Finally, one of Probably-Not-Billy's compatriots stirred. He was wearing ancient blue jeans that were riding so low beneath his considerable paunch that the crack of his ass peaked coyly out from below his too short t-shirt, Dan noticed, in the time-honored fashion of the urban workman.

"Could be a while," he intoned. He took a cautious sniff. "Anybody else smell that? Must be that florist next door." Dan backed rapidly up and got in his car. Four blocks west, he found one of those expensive twenty-four hour parking structures that miraculously still had some open spaces. After handing over a minimum deposit of a size that would have made a creditable real estate down payment, he walked back to work, irritable, caffeine-deprived, and vaguely aware that he had to pee. He concentrated on these mundane sensations. It was oppressively hot, and it seemed impossible to keep his pace from flagging as he walked. His briefcase seemed unnaturally heavy. He was afraid of running down like a wind-up toy and stopping in the middle of the block.

As he got on the elevator in the lobby, he realized that four blocks' walk in the blazing noonday August heat had only ripened the floral miasma that clung to him like a cloud. Avoiding the gaze of his fellow passengers, he stared resolutely ahead, and prayed that no one he knew got on the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, the bladder pressure that had seemed quietly nagging while he was moving became loudly insistent. By the tenth floor, he was uncomfortable. By the twentieth, he was shuffling his feet and trying not to glare at the people who unreasonably insisted on their right to stop the elevator and get off on any damn floor they chose. When the bell dinged at twenty-six, he was out the door before it was fully open and sprinting for the nearest bathroom, only to find the jaunty little man silhouette adorned with a large sign that read:

**OUT OF ORDER **

Dan gave an unmanly whimper, and then turned determinedly to head for the women's bathroom around the corner. At that moment, Jeremy appeared.

"They're all out," he said.

"All? ALL?" Dan's voice was reaching its upper register.

"Yep. The whole building. People have been going to the drugstore next door, but you have to buy something," Jeremy said with a sympathetic look. Which was accompanied by a discreet, but unmistakable sniff.

"oh, hell," Dan snarled.

Back on the elevator. Struggle determinedly with the impulse to throttle everyone who got on or off at other floors. Give serious contemplation to getting off on ten, where he knew no one, and pissing in the potted plants. Lobby, at last.

At the drugstore counter, the bored houri with the bubble gum and the eyebrow piercing looked at him impassively when he begged the use of the bathroom.

"Gotta buy something first."

Dan looked wildly around, and grabbed the nearest object for sale, which, it happened, was a pack of Juicyfruit. He didn't even like Juicyfruit, but he'd give it to Dana as an apology for being late. His tormentor behind the cash register stared at the Juicyfruit, and then stared at him, her expressionless face turning stony as she asked, "And what else?"

"Oh, for..." Dan grabbed a package from the garish display beside the gum rack, which turned out to be the giant econo-sized box of Stimula condoms. "Get More Pleasure Out Of Life" proclaimed the box. There was a picture of a woman on it with a satisfied simper. He slapped it down next to the gum.

"That'll be eighteen-fifty three," said the girl. She sniffed pointedly. "Bathroom's to the left, in the back."

Somewhat calmer, Dan rode the elevator back up to work. His bladder was no longer screaming at him, but now he was clumsily juggling his briefcase and the condom box, which persisted in slipping out of the much too small paper bag supplied by Ms. Friendly in the drugstore. The name "STIMULA CONDOMS" was emblazoned in hot magenta script on every side of the box, and seemed have acquired a neon glow in the close confines of the elevator, which was, other than Dan, occupied solely by women. He was sure he either looked like the delivery guy for the orgy up on twenty-six, or the kind of loser who would openly carry a giant box of condoms as a prelude to the world's worst pick-up lines. Like:

"I'll bet you and I could use this whole box up in one night, baby."

Dan felt his face grow hot, and it seemed like the blush triggered a fresh wave of bath gel perfume from his skin. He was sure that the nearest women drew away from him. Finally, they attained the twenty-sixth floor, and he got off with a sigh. He briefly considered turning and saying "The name's Casey McCall, 555-5824," to his fellow passengers, but did not. He walked through the bullpen and into his office instead, where he realized he was still hot.

Not only was he hot--Casey was sitting at his desk, reading and fanning himself, with his shirt completely unbuttoned and pushed back on his shoulders. The room was dim, because the rarely used blinds had been drawn, striping Casey with faint bars of light. Except for the sports posters, it looked like a stage set for some Tennessee Williams play about Decadent Semi-Tropical Ennui. All that was missing was a slowly rotating ceiling fan. The room was really hot, Dan decided. He tried not to look at Casey's chest.

"What's up?" he asked. "Why is it so hot in here?"

Casey looked up slowly. "Air-conditioning's out on most of the floor. They had to channel everything that's working into the studio to keep the equipment from frying."

Dan considered this. "So can't we go work in there?"

"Evidently not. Something about keeping the doors closed, and minimizing 'heat generating sources'."

"Heat generating sources? Is that what we are?"

"To the building engineer, it is."

"Great," Dan muttered, flinging himself down on the couch, and closing his eyes. The paper bag he was holding gave up the unequal struggle to contain the condoms, and split from top to bottom. The box bounced to the floor. Casey's mouth quirked up.

"I see you have already felt the need to visit the drugstore."

"Please tell me that the bathrooms are going to work again soon, at least," Dan groaned. "Before we have to go out and equip ourselves with motorman's friends." He covered his embarrassment by bending down to pick up the box. Once he had it in his hand, he couldn't think what to do with it, so he shoved it into a corner of the couch. It seemed to be approximately the size of the Oxford English Dictionary.

"Maybe an hour, was the last I heard. Or more."

"What happened in the rundown?"

"It got postponed. Dana and Dave were running around making sure the studio stayed cool." Casey sniffed slowly and deliberately. "Is that--gardenia--I smell on you?"

"I ran out of soap, okay?" Dan knew that this remark was probably only the first of many, and started to think if he had any sense at all, he'd go home and get back in bed.

Casey took a deep, appreciative sniff. Dan raised his head to scowl at him, and saw him begin fanning himself again as he drawled, "I lahk it. It adds to the plan-TAY-tion atmospheah we've got goin' round heah."

The phone rang. Casey continued to fan himself and smirk. The fan, Dan noted, was a cheesy palmetto number with the words "You're in the Big Easy" emblazoned across it. He remembered when they'd gotten it on a trip to New Orleans, back when they were still at Lone Star Sports. He wanted to say something about it, to show that he remembered, but instead he snapped, "Are you going to answer the phone, Miss Scarlett?"

Casey picked up the phone and drawled, "Yayus?" He shot Dan a look. "oh, hey, Isaac." Dan made a face back, hoping, at the very least, for minor embarrassment on Casey's part, but it seemed Casey was more bent on embarrassing Dan, for he continued in a normal voice, "You ought to come in here and get a whiff of Danny. He's got this whole floral thing going on." Pause. "Yeah, exactly." Pause. "Hang on, I'll ask him." Casey spoke to him. "Isaac wants to know, is this a permanent change? Beause he's getting kind of tired of CKbe." Back into the phone. "I know what you mean, Isaac."

Dan felt his face close down. Take it lightly, he thought. "Yeah, like you can talk, Old Spice guy," was the only rejoinder he could come up with, which was pretty weak, but at least it had a basis in fact. He couldn't really say anything about Isaac; Isaac always smelled great, but Casey had been known to fall into the Aftershave Timewarp, and show up at work smelling exactly as Dan imagined he had for his senior prom, after raiding his father's dresser.

Dan had always had a weird thing for the smell of Old Spice.

Well, if the rundown was postponed, at least he had time to get some coffee. Dan left Casey still talking to Isaac and wandered out to the coffee set-up near the conference room. People gave him a few odd glances as he got within minimum smelling distance, but no one said anything. Eliot opened his mouth, but shut it again when Dan shot him a look. Natalie, however, was made of sterner stuff.

"Danny." She approached and considered him as he was adding milk to his coffee. "I have to tell you that wearing 'Island Flowers' sends a very mixed message."

"I'm not wearing Island Flowers, Natalie."

"Excuse me, but three generations of Hurley women have worn Island Flowers, Danny, including my older sister, and I know what it smells like."

"My soap disappeared. Gone, poof. Disintegrated. This bottle of bath gel stuff was the only thing I had to get clean with." Dan was aware that a pleading note had entered his voice; it seemed important to enlist Natalie's sympathy in this issue. In the area of staff practical jokes, Natalie's decree was law. She had the power to determine whether this whole sorry incident would be forgotten in two days, or whether Dan would be receiving Island Flowers gifts sets from his co-workers for years to come.

"Ahh." Natalie nodded sagely. "Your mother's, no doubt. The bath gel is particularly long lasting, fragrance-wise."

"Goddammit."

"Oh, yes. All day, under the right conditions," Natalie chirped.

Dan unclenched his teeth. "Fine. I'll bring it in tomorrow, and you can have it."

"Are you kidding? I broke ranks on tradition when I was fifteen. You won't catch me wearing that stuff. Especially now that Jeremy has met my mother and my grandmother and gotten a good whiff." She shuddered delicately. "Sometimes, you just don't want to go there."

"I never wanted to go there, Natalie." She patted him sympathetically, but Dan still felt the threat of beribboned gift sets hanging over his head.

Back in the office, Casey was typing. Dan considered his coffee cup, and realized he was going to have to walk a thin line between the need for caffeine, and the desire to avoid a second trip to the drugstore. Although this time, if he had to go back, he'd buy soap. Casey had considerately placed his purchases prominently on his desk, where the legend STIMULA CONDOMS would be the first thing anyone walking into their office saw. As was borne out when Dana entered a moment later, before he could stash the thing, and voiced one of her startled hoots.

"Regular sized box not enough for the demands of your social life, Danny?"

He waved the pack of Juicyfruit at her. "See this? I was going to give it to you, but now I've reconsidered."

Dana sidled over to him and purred, "Danny, you don't need to bribe women with presents. Not when you smell sooo good." And then she laughed. Dana needed to take care not to sound like a hyena when she laughed, Dan thought critically. It wasn't an attractive quality. Especially when joined with Casey's snorts, which now that Dan thought about it, themselves suggested a rooting water buffalo. I had a farm in Africa, Dan said to himself sardonically.

Dana calmed down. "Your interview is coming in at four o'clock for the taping, Casey. We called him and warned him about the temperature."

"Remind me who this is again?" Casey said.

"Casey," Dana sounded exasperated. "It's Lars Gerns, the surfer." She looked down at her clipboard. "He's ranked number two in the world, and he prefers to be called 'Larry'." She looked up again. "And I hope you have prepared some pithy, evocative questions for him."

Casey fumbled with papers on his desk. "I've got them right here. Somewhere."

"I mean it, Casey. I don't want a repeat of that interview with the skier. No mumbo-jumbo about 'the vibe thing'."

"Dana, the guy was a moron. I can't force them to sound intelligent, you know."

"Yes, you can," Dana said grimly, as she left.

"Larry Gerns," Dan said speculatively. "He sounds like one of those skinny guys with big feet who hasn't had a conversation about anything except waxing his board since he graduated from high school. If he graduated. I'll bet he smokes a bowl before he has to do something like be interviewed. I'll bet he calls you 'dude'."

"I _am_ a dude."

"This is like you thinking you're cool, right?"

"I am cool. I am a cool dude."

"And a..." Dan stopped. He'd been about to say "chick magnet", but suddenly the words wouldn't come out. Casey looked at him, then dropped his eyes back to his computer.

That exchange was almost normal, thought Dan. Almost like before.

The afternoon progressed. The noon rundown, when it finally happened, hosted only a few jokes about Dan's new taste in personal fragrances. Kim pretended to swoon when she got close to him, which Dan actually sort of enjoyed. The ambient temperature on the twenty-sixth floor did continue to creep up, though, and Dan was finally forced to take off the long sleeved shirt he typically wore to combat the bone-chilling atmosphere that was standard in the office when the air conditioning was working. He put on an old t-shirt he had stashed in his locker in wardrobe. It was that, or do some heat-induced swooning of his own. The t-shirt was one he had worn to work out in on a few occasions, and it had the bottom cut off and the neck cut out. He looked briefly at himself in the mirror, and then averted his eyes, not liking a reflection that looked a little too like an aging chorus boy. Somehow the effect had been different on a treadmill with a towel around his neck. Casey continued to lounge around their office with his shirt unbuttoned. Jeremy, with his usual quiet efficiency, had found some electric fans and distributed them. They had one in the office, blowing a lazy sweep of warm air across the room. Dan supposed that the breeze was the reason that Casey's nipples were hard.

They had been quiet for some time, working--yeah, working--when Casey spoke suddenly.

"So. Plans tonight?"

Taken by surprise, Dan's heart thumped. He said, "uh, no. The usual, I guess. You know." The usual was a post-broadcast beer at Anthony's.

"Okay. I'll see you then." And Casey looked at him levelly, and he couldn't look away.

"Case," Dan said. His mouth was dry. There was a knock on the door and Natalie opened it with a flourish, ushering in a tall blond man.

"Casey, Dan, this is Larry Gerns," Natalie said, with the air of someone saying, this is all my fantasies made flesh. Casey stood up and came forward to shake hands. Dan stood up and stopped.

"Nice to meet you," Larry Gerns said. His artfully cut hair framed a handsome, high cheek-boned face and vividly blue eyes. He was wearing brightly colored loose drawstring pants that clung to his rangy hips, and a Sex Wax t-shirt, Dan was sorry to note, that had been cut away at the neck and hem. It did not make him look like an aging chorus boy. In the discreet gap between the bottom of the shirt and the slouchy waistband of his pants, a tanned and rippled abdomen was sporadically visible. He was wearing sandals. He even had nice feet. He was smiling at Casey, who was smiling back. He gestured self-deprecatingly and said, "I hope the clothes are alright. They told me it would be pretty hot in here, so I thought I'd dress the part."

"Yeah, looks great. Thanks for coming in," Casey said. "Are you in town for long?"

"I'm finishing my master's thesis at Columbia, so I'm in the area for a while."

"Really? How interesting!" Natalie said in a too-bright voice. "What field?"

Something mushy, thought Dan. Some bullshit cross-departmental thing where no one inquires too closely into your conclusions or your research. Surfing and The Existential Dilemma.

"Twentieth century European history," Larry Gerns said.

"Let's go to the studio and get set up, and you can tell me how you keep up your training in the middle of New York." Casey hadn't bothered to button up his shirt, Dan noted. They were moving toward the door. Larry Gerns looked over at Dan.

"Nice to meet you, Dan. I like the show." He paused. "That's an interesting aftershave you're wearing."

"Thanks," Dan managed. Because he was a professional, with professional standards of conduct, he waited until they were out the door and out of earshot before snarling, "Up yours, you airhead Nazi surfboy _bimbo_."

* * *

An hour later, Casey came back into the office. Dan was staring at the three sentences he'd managed to type in the interval. And they aren't even good sentences, he thought ruefully. He looked up at Casey.

"So, how'd it go?" He was trying for casual, but had an awful feeling that he'd achieved accusing, instead.

"Good, it was a good interview. He's an interesting guy." Casey sat down. "Dana will be happy."

"No mention of 'the vibe thing', huh."

"No, not one." There was a pause. Dan felt seized by the impulse that made otherwise sane people ride barrels over Niagara Falls.

"Yeah? So he's interesting? Are you going to get together? since he's in town."

Casey shrugged. "Maybe. We might have a beer sometime."

"Did you get his number? I know your fondness for post-graduate degrees."

Casey was silent for a moment. "What's going on, Dan?"

"Nothing. Nothing is going on." Dan watched himself slip into insanity with something approaching horror. "I hope you remembered to put your shirt on before you started the interview."

Casey's voice was very quiet, which meant he was enraged. "As a matter of fact, I took my pants off, too. We did the interview, and Larry didn't use any word with less than three syllables, and when it was over, I blew him on camera." He got up and stalked toward the door, turning as he opened it to toss back, "It'll be a great spot. I'll probably win another Emmy."

Dan's voice was not at all quiet. "Yeah, for _cocksucking_. Who'll be your competition in that category? Dan Rather?" The door whooshed closed behind Casey, but not before Dan had registered the sudden, shocked silence in the newsroom. He peered through the patterned glass of the wall and saw every raised head quickly drop, except for Jeremy's. Jeremy was looking at the door to their office with a worried frown.

Goddamn, thought Dan. So much for almost normal. He was shaking.

* * *

They avoided one another until shortly before showtime, when Casey cornered Dan in make-up and closed the door behind Allison as she left, shutting them into the small room with its bright, pitiless light.

"Okay," he said in a determined voice, "for the record, the past week was your idea. You were the one who said you weren't sure you could do this."

The air-conditioning had been working normally for a couple of hours, but Dan still felt hot and ashamed. As the grace note to his misery, he knew he was sending off one last gasp of Island Flowers. It mingled with the smells of powder and skin cream and alcohol.

"I know," he said hoarsely.

"Also, for the record--I did not make a pass at Larry Gerns. I don't give a shit about Larry Gerns."

Dan pressed his lips together and nodded his head jerkily.

"Jesus, Dan." Casey looked defeated. "You show Rebecca all the forbearance and tolerance in the world, and she was _married_, for chrissakes. She had a foot out the door from the second you met her. I've been your friend for ten years, Danny. When do I rate that treatment?"

"You do. You do rate it, Casey." There was something else he needed to say, but speaking the words was like hauling heavy weights up through dark waters. So hard. Casey was turning to go. He had to say it. "She didn't matter."

Casey stopped and looked at him, disbelieving. "What?"

"She didn't matter to me. Not the way you do." Dan gulped and breathed. "I'm scared." He hoped Casey wouldn't touch him now, because he would lose it, and they had to be on the air in ten minutes.

Casey didn't. He stood, still and expressionless. Finally, he said, "That's kind of fucked-up, Dan."

Dan chopped out a sound. It was almost a laugh. "No shit. Fucked-up Danny."

Casey sighed, ran a hand through his carefully combed hair (oh, Allison's going to love that, thought Dan). "Fucked-up Casey, too." He looked up. "I know it's hard. I know why, too. And I haven't tried to make it any easier." He sighed again, "Lisa always..." and stopped.

"Lisa what?" Dan really didn't want to be compared to Lisa.

"Nothing," Casey said. "I just need to get better at meeting people halfway, that's all."

"Okay," Dan said cautiously. He felt a little better, like they had resolved something, but he wasn't sure what that was.

Casey straightened, suddenly brisk, and said, "We need to get out there."

"Okay."

"Let's talk later."

Dan didn't say anything. He could feel exhaustion creeping up behind his pre-show energy, and he wasn't sure he could talk anymore. He gestured towards the door, and they went out into the studio together.

* * *

With the memory of the flat plane of Larry Gerns' stomach in his head, Dan went home after the show and unrolled an exercise mat in his living room. He'd skipped the post-show beer at Anthony's. Even though he and Casey had smiled tentatively at one another during the show breaks, and talked briefly about going to Charlie's Little League game next weekend, things still felt strange and awkward. So he went home and did abdominal crunches instead.

He was standing, slightly sweaty and breathless, in the middle of the living room, when he heard a key in the lock. He looked up to see Casey come through the door. They stood silently for a moment, contemplating one another. Dan felt messy, his hair sticking up, his t-shirt and shorts damp, but Casey walked over and put his arms around him anyway.

"Hey," Dan said quietly, "what are you doing?"

"Meeting you halfway," Casey said, his voice slightly muffled against Dan's neck.

Dan paused, and then lifted his own hands to Casey's waist, letting them rest there. "This is more than halfway, Case."

"Maybe. But I think it's my turn." Casey smelled sweet, slightly of beer, slightly of the stuff they used to take off their make-up after the show. "it's just. It's too good to waste, Danny. Because you've been burned, or because I'm a control freak. We're good together, almost all the time."

Dan felt warmth spread through him at that, then a prickle of guilt. "Except when I call you a cocksucker."

He could feel Casey smile against his neck; then he pulled his face away to smile into Dan's eyes. "Strangely enough, I sort of liked it." He shrugged. "I like sucking cock." Dan stirred. "I like sucking _your_ cock."

"Oh." Dan felt slightly breathless. "Okay, well, good. Because I like that too. Sucking yours, I mean. Not that I. don't like it when you. you know." Casey stopped his babbling by kissing him softly, then pulled away slightly to pluck at the gym shorts.

"What's up with these?"

"Sit-ups," Dan muttered, trying to catch Casey's mouth again. Casey held him off, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"Since when do you come home after a show and do sit-ups?"

What the hell, Dan thought, I already look like the world's biggest dork. "Since Mr. Washboard Abs gave you his phone number, I guess." Suddenly the easy warmth became embarrassed heat, and he turned in Casey's grasp and said, "I need to go take a shower, I stink."

Casey just tightened his arms, holding him back to chest, and said, "uh-uh. I like the taste of sweaty Dan," into his hair. He pressed his parted lips to Dan's neck, licking softly, taking advantage of the cut-out neck of the t-shirt. After having worn it all day, Dan had brought it home to toss in the laundry; it had been the handiest thing to put on for his exercise. Casey's tongue was moving slowly from the hollow formed by the tendons of his neck, across the top of his collarbone, out to the point of his shoulder. Dan felt his knees soften. Casey was murmuring.

"drove me nuts in this thing today...looked like somebody's fucking rentboy...I wanted you so much..." Dan's eyes were too heavy to keep open. His head fell back.

Casey brought his mouth back up to hover over the join of Dan's neck and shoulder, breathing on the tender skin. Then he bit down, and dragged the fingers of one hand from Dan's nipple down to his waist, the edges of his fingernails blunted by the soft cotton. Dan moaned a little, and Casey ran a finger inside the elasticized waist of his shorts and flicked it at the indentation of his navel, as lightly as a breath. He slid his other hand inside the shorts and splayed his fingers across Dan's hipbone, then trailed them along the crease at the top of his thigh, stopping to hover just short of his cock, pressing his whole palm up to cup Dan's lower belly.

"It you start developing a six-pack, I'm going to handcuff you to the bed and feed you pizza and Mallomars," he said. This ridiculous statement went off like fireworks lighted on Dan's thighs, or maybe it was the roughened, breathless voice that Casey said it in. Or the insistent press of his erection against Dan's ass. At any rate, Dan was suddenly leaking and hard, and turning back to face Casey, to wrap Casey up in his arms and kiss him. Kiss him slowly; wet, long, drugged kisses that had them both shaking and stumbling toward the bedroom.

Casey stripped Dan of his t-shirt and shorts, and turned clumsy fingers to the fly of his own jeans. Dan lay back on the bed, and with his eyes glued to Casey, ran a hand slowly up and down his own cock, lingering over the wet slit with his thumb. He twisted a little, spread his thighs and reached down to press a finger against his opening. Casey was panting harshly as he pulled his jeans and underwear down, watching Dan. He pulled his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it. A split second later, he was sprawled over Dan, and they were hitching and thrusting against each other. Casey grabbed the back of Dan's shoulders. Dan clutched Casey's ass. He remembered what Casey had said about handcuffing him to the bed, and groaned, feeling the velvety rigidity of the cock against his belly. Casey thrust faster, and frantically sought his mouth. Dan opened his mouth and bent his knees, pushing his feet against the bunched up covers, arching into the fine hot cradle of Casey's hips. Casey's pubic hair grew wet and slick in its delicious scrape against his cock. They were panting, and then gasping into one another as they came. Dan shuddered as the hot flood pooled in his navel and ran down his sides. Casey was moaning, "Danny, fuck, Danny." Gradually, their movements slowed, and stopped.

Dan felt satiated, replete. He felt broken open. He tightened his arms around Casey's back, and said, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," came the muffled reply. Casey slid slowly off of him to lie on his side. "You're staying now, right? No more retreating?"

"Yeah." Dan felt something hot and wet run down his cheek and into his ear. He heaved a breath. He had a joke about make-up sex on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite manage the words.

"Danny." Casey pressed closer, wrapping an arm and a leg around him. "When you feel bad, all you have to do is tell me. I promise I'll listen." He repeated fiercely, "I promise."

Dan nodded. They lay quiet for a while, until finally he could say, "Deal." The broken open feeling didn't go away, but it got easier to bear, and mixed with the boneless heavy pleasure of lying next to Casey. Lying next to Casey all night, he thought sleepily as he yawned, and then getting up and...suddenly he stiffened, wide awake. "Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_."

"What?"

"I forgot to buy soap."

Casey chortled, and then buried his nose in Dan's armpit and sniffed. "I like this smell."

"It's not your nose I'm worried about."

"Think our co-workers will be offended by a little manly odor?"

"Just wait until tomorrow, when our choice is Day-Old Sweat and Semen, or Island Flowers."

Casey was silent for a moment, then suggested diffidently, "We can always get up right now and go to my place."

They both considered this and then burrowed deeper into one another. "Naaaah."

"I know," Dan said slowly. He was getting sleepy again. "We can get up early, and go buy soap."

Casey's voice was dreamily speculative. "Only if we don't have anything better to do."

  



End file.
